


The Dog Star

by Anonanonsir



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonanonsir/pseuds/Anonanonsir
Summary: Eska finds a moment to grieve. Short oneshot centering on the prophet and Sirius.





	The Dog Star

The air in the baths was hot and damp, like an Ostian summer day when the winds died and the sea lay flat and the only things moving were the creeping patches of shade. Days when the air was almost too heavy to breathe and he and Sirius had sprawled like lazy cats in whatever shelter they could find and slept the day away, or else climbed the empty lighthouse scaffolding to throw themselves into the sea.

Eska sat at the edge of the pool, warm water lapping at his knees. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the tumbling roar of the surf, the clang of ships’ bells sounding bright and clear over the water, the distant rolling din of the docks. He had started to forget; the Endralian cold had sucked the warmth from his bones and with it every memory of what came before. But here in the baths with the warm, heavy air clinging to his skin, he could remember.

He could remember the feel of sun, blistering hot on his neck and shoulders, the warm, salty taste of seawater, he could see the lighthouse scaffolding, the wooden planks grey and sea-weathered, rough and scorching hot underfoot, and Sirius, Sirius as he had been then, with warmth in his eyes and a slight crease between his brows, and life coursing through him, and not as the grey, salt-gnawed corpse rotting in the bowels of some godsdamned temple.

He remembered sitting on the scaffolding planks, he and Sirius, their legs swinging out over the empty air and the surf crashing far below, careless of the dizzy height. It was just past sunset, the shade of evening settling over them like gossamer. His nails tore into the bruised skin of a pomegranate -- it had rolled away from one of the fruit stalls during a scuffle in the marketplace, it wasn’t _quite_ stealing if you found it. He broke it open, spraying the sweet scent into the air and scattering several seeds, like drops of blood, a libation poured out to the sea, the rest were nested in the white flesh, shining like rubies. The smell made his mouth water-- they hadn’t eaten in a day and a half -- and he grinned, offering half to Sirius with sticky, crimson stained fingers.  

His teeth sank into it, the seeds bursting in his mouth, tart and sweet, overwhelming his starved senses, so strong and bright in flavor it almost hurt. The juice filled his mouth and ran down his chin. It tasted like distilled sunlight. _How is it?_ Sirius wanted to know, and Eska answered with his mouth full, the words slurpy and wet and ridiculous in their enthusiasm; it made him giggle and Sirius smile, his lips stained red. Encouraged, he tried reciting the beginning of the First Proclamation and Sirius nearly spit out his mouthful laughing.  It was quiet laugh, soft and light and warm like a summer evening. It was the most wonderful thing Eska had ever heard.

The moon rose over the water and they sprawled on the wooden planks, tracing the silhouettes of ships in the harbor and daydreaming of far off places, or else rolled onto their backs, telling stories about the stars. Sirius was the son of a fisherman and seemed to know every star in the sky; he told the story of Sa’jid the Hunter with his magic belt whose constellation stalked the night sky near the horizon, and Eska gave the Kilean name he’d learned from his mother and told the story of a pirate queen.

But in Enderal the stars were shapeless and cold; they did not speak or tell stories. He was used to looking up and seeing familiar faces, names which had the color of his mother’s voice and his best friend’s smile, but here he looked up and saw only strangers. Not even the Hunter, intrepid adventurer though he was, dared venture so far as these northern skies.

And in the darkness behind his closed eyes, there were no stars at all, nor was there anything above his head save the heavy, Endralian architecture of the baths. The darkness was empty, just like the place at his shoulder, a hole in the world that no one else could see. Sometimes it ached, like a limb that was missing. At other times it was an open wound, raw and bleeding with pain that ought to tear out his voice and drive him to his knees. Only he had to keep standing, keep forcing words into his mouth, because no one could see the blood, no one could see the gaping hole which should never have been there. It seemed inconceivable, it seemed _wrong_ , that an absence which stretched beyond the bounds of words, which seemed to fill every moment, every space with its very lack, should not leave some mark; people ought to have _known_ , that something was gone, that something was missing. How could something hurt so much and mean less than nothing?

Tears gathered on his lashes and rolled down his cheeks. There had been little time to think and less to mourn since he’d come to Enderal. It came upon him in fits and starts, in the rare moments of stillness or when he was too exhausted to keep his guard up any longer. At those times the world around him felt as barren and distant as the skies. And not for the first time he felt the longing, frightened and desperate and painful in its intensity, for a touch, a hand, something to cling to, to anchor him, because he was lost and adrift and there were no stars to guide him home.


End file.
